


Steamy Messages

by SKinsey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Smut, Steamy Messages, Student-Teacher Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 08:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4600395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SKinsey/pseuds/SKinsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Longbottom keeps finding messages on his greenhouse windows. Who could the culprit be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steamy Messages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tamlane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamlane/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [tamlane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamlane/pseuds/tamlane) in the [NextGen_Summer_Heat](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/NextGen_Summer_Heat) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
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> 
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> 
>  
> 
> Someone's been leaving Prof. Longbottom messages in the condensation on his greenhouse windows.
> 
> And they keep getting bolder... and harder to get rid of.
> 
> Go wild! I'll greedily take any thing from fluff to smut to horror. :)

It started with his name.

Goddamn, he’d never liked it. _Neville Longbottom_ was never a name meant to be sighed out in passion, nor cried out in pleasure, and never had he ever pictured it drawn out in the foggy remnants of heat on glass. But somehow, on a Friday evening, while he snipped sprigs of aconite, there it was, loopy writing in condensation. There, in the back of the greenhouse, _Professor Neville Longbottom_. And, for once, it was kind of interesting. 

 

By Monday, he’d mostly forgotten all about it. It was just his name. It didn’t mean anything. It was probably the work of giggling girls in the back row. Silliness born of boredom. Nothing more. He wasn’t thinking about it.

He wiped away all traces and continued on with his lessons.

“Good morning, Professor Longbottom.”

“Good morning,” Neville returned. Wednesday mornings, two hours with second years. They were a rambunctious group, but eager to learn. “Take your seats, please.”

The greenhouse erupted with a wave of giggles. Neville dropped his bag at the front, pulled on his gloves, and faced the class. “Alright, settle down.”

They weren’t looking at him; they were looking towards the back of the nursery. A small crowd of both hufflepuffs and slytherins were standing at the back, about to crush his aconite as they pressed close to the glass.

He made his way through the sea of students, gently herding them to their seats until he reached the back. “Sit down,” he instructed. They sat, all still giggling, and as they cleared way, he finally saw what they had been looking at.

 _I want your sweet nothings, to taste them sweet on my tongue_.

“Oh Godric.” His eyes went wide.

“Who wrote that, Professor?” a girl from the front sang. “Do you have a _girlfriend_?”

He didn’t. In fact, he hadn’t dated anyone since his separation from Hannah. But that was neither here nor there.

“No,” he said quickly. It was the same writing as before, and it was seemingly charmed to stay legible. He gave it a good wipe until it was gone.

“What are sweet nothings?” asked Gilbert, a sweet hufflepuff who rather reminded him of himself at that age.

Neville shook his head. “Just that,” he replied. “Nothing. Now, will you all put on your gloves so we can get started today? We have a lot to get through and it’s one of my favourite lessons.” 

“Not mandrakes, is it?” Gilbert said worriedly. “I did not like the mandrakes.”

“No more mandrakes,” he assured with a smile, glad for the redirect. “Now, who did the reading?”

 

For the rest of the week, he made a conscious effort to arrive to class early and check for messages on the glass. It was a student, he’d realized. He knew every professor who entered the greenhouses, because he accompanied each one. It was a running joke among staff that Neville kept inventory of every leaf in every greenhouse (not true, but not far from the truth either). They respected his pride in his work, just as he did theirs.

With this, he had to acknowledge that these were messages left by a student. That in itself was completely inappropriate, let alone his persistent and growing curiosity to discover which student it was.

He was one step closer when he found the next message the following Friday evening.

_Make me blossom beneath your fingertips_

“Fucking hell.” He almost didn't want to erase the words, so tempted to leave a reply. He left the writing overnight and still intact until Sunday evening when he felt forced to swipe them away for propriety's sake. 

All the while hoping they'd be replaced. 

Then came Tuesday evening. He was now in the habit of watching the window. The first thing he glanced at when entering the greenhouse, the last thing he took note of when leaving. It seemed his ghost writer was becoming bolder. 

_Fill the spaces between my fingers, my breath, my legs_

He closed his eyes, his head tipping back as he let out a groan. He hadn't felt this way since his own days as a student. This needed to stop. This was wrong. He was a professor!

He stared at the writing, tracing the letters, the glass cool and wet under his touch. 

Then again, whoever this was, they were likely of age. He taught the seventh years on Tuesdays and Fridays; he found his messages only ever after their lessons. 

He had a relatively small N.E.W.T. level class. A dozen students between the four houses, eight of them girls. 

"Professor?"

Neville looked up from the papers he was marking. "Rose," he said. "Yes, how can I help?"

She smiled. "My moondew cross has grown quite a bit. Could I have your permission to test the properties?"

"Granted." Neville stood. "May I see it?"

"Absolutely." She led him over to her workstation. 

He inspected her potted sprout. "This is fantastic," he praised. It was far better than his other pupils certainly. The handful of them who had actually managed to grow something at all were not nearly as impressive. Rose Weasley was his star pupil. 

"Thank you." Rose tucked her ginger hair back behind her ears. "Would you mind snipping a leaf off for me?" she asked. "I don't think I have the heart to do it myself."

He chuckled and found a small pair of scissors nearby. "Sure." He dusted his hands of dirt and surveyed the plant. Just as he was about to cut, she touched his arm. 

"Not that one," she said softly, moving in to redirect him to a smaller, lower leaf. She was so close he could smell the vanilla on her skin and the lavender off her hair. 

"This?" He held the small shears poised to cut, focused on holding them steady even as he felt her body brush against his side. 

"Right there," she agreed. 

He made quick work and placed the snippet in her open palm. 

"Thank you, professor." 

She was still standing so close. "You're welcome. You've done some excellent work here."

She looked to the plant, then back at him, her brown eyes bright beneath curling lashes. "I'm hoping it blossoms soon."

_Blossom_

He found the will to step back from her, nodding once decisively. "Yes, I—I'm sure it will."

 

 _Rose_. It couldn't be Rose. That was preposterous. He'd known her since she was a child. He'd been teaching her for seven years. 

And yet...she was in his N.E.W.T. class. She was smart enough that he wouldn't put it past her to be able to sneak in and out of the greenhouses. She was soft and kind but bold. 

And he couldn't stop picturing it.

That evening, he returned to the greenhouse during dinner, and found that same script on the back window. 

_Take me soundly, fuck me deep, make me feel it, make me weep._

And something in him finally snapped. 

"Rose." She was in the middle of dinner with the rest of the students, mid conversation with friends. 

She turned, startled. "Yes, professor?"

Neville glanced at her friends, whose attention he'd also gained. "Excuse me, girls," he said. "I'll need to borrow the head girl for a moment."

Rose stood as he motioned for her to follow, and she walked silently behind him as he led them all the way back to the greenhouses. He shut the door behind them. 

"Do you know anything about this?" He gestured at the writing, and watched as she blushed. 

"No, professor." There was a light to her brown eyes. 

"Rose, don't you dare lie to me." He tried to keep his voice even and strong. "Is this your doing?"

She bit her lip. "Yes, professor."

"And the others," he went on, "that was all you as well? Rose, this is a completely inappropriate prank. Do you realize what this could do to either of us?"

Her chin dropped, and for a moment he felt bad for chastising her so. "It wasn't a prank," she spoke softly, "I...I meant every word."

His eyes were drawn to the words across the glass now. He sucked in a breath. "Rose," he said, voice gentler but still firm, "I'm...flattered. You're an intelligent, charming, gorgeous girl, but I am your professor. You're my student. This is way out of line."

"Only for another month." She drew closer. "I'm of age. I'll be graduating soon, and then..."

"I'm old enough to be your father." It hurt to say it. "You should be dating boys—" 

"My own age," she finished. "Professor," he swallowed hard at the sound of it, "I know boys my age. I'm not interested in them. I'm interested in men. In you." She was only a footstep from him now. "Please."

He didn't stop her when her hands reached up and touched the side of his face, the nape of his neck, let her press herself close to him, and brush her lips over his. 

"Rose, we can't." He pulled back, despite every atom of him wanting to draw nearer. 

"Why not?" she asked. 

"We shouldn't. It's...you're a student, and I'm...it's wrong. We shouldn't. You should go."

Her eyes flicked down. "That's a lot of shoulds, professor." She licked her lips. "What about _want_? What do you _want_ to do?"

He wanted to kiss her again. To thread his fingers through her loose curls and taste the sweet smelling skin of her neck. To feel her slender legs wrapped about his waist as he felt the ridges of her spine and the curve of her arse. 

"Because, in case I haven't made it clear," she went on, "I want you. I want you in every way possible. And I don't care about age, or proper, or anything. Just you." She was advancing on him again. 

He swallowed, took a step back. 

"Don't you want me too?" 

She moved forward then, kissed him, softly, trying to coax a response and steal his control. 

And it was working. 

God, she tasted sweet. 

Her hands found his, lifted them to her waist and left them there. She moved impossibly closer, hips against his, heat radiating off of her and sparking between them. 

Her mouth opened, invited him in, and she moaned as he finally gave her what she wanted, leaning into her soft form, lips parting. Any resolve he had went out the window as her hands slid through his hair and her tongue met his. 

He pulled away only to lift her up and place her atop the nearest work table, her slender legs around his hips, her lips travelling down his warm neck. 

Rose tugged insistently at his shirt, freeing the tails and immediately setting to work on the buttons. 

"Slow down," he whispered. His hands closed around hers, forehead tipped to meet her. The sound of their ragged breathing was loud and hot between them. 

She was staring up at him, expectant, excited, eyes bright and seeing straight into him. "I don't want to give you the time to overthink this," she admitted. She fisted the ends of his shirt. "Please...Please." She kissed him sweetly. "Please."

His hands took over for her, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. Hands sliding up his chest and over his shoulders, she rid him of it, then dipped down to pepper kisses across his collar, his shoulders, his chest. 

He was so aware of every bit of her. How close she was. Her very breath against his skin. Every hot electric kiss. 

Soft hands folded around his, skimmed down her slight curves, travelled up the smooth skin of her thighs, under her skirt. 

"I want you to touch me," she breathed. 

He nodded. 

Her hands left his. 

"Professor, _please_."

He should have been ashamed by how much that one little request, how much that one little word, _Professor_ , turned him on. His trousers were far too confining. 

When was the last time he'd ever ached this way?

They were all roaming hands and open-mouthed kisses then. Buttons slipping, clothes shedding, sighs of relief and longing and _ohh_. Her laughter was soft, and nervous, but infectious nonetheless. 

He couldn't say who was in control. If either was at all. But soon enough, she was down to her knickers, and moaning, and he realized he was unconsciously rocking against her. 

She pressed her lips to the centre of his chest, hooked her fingers in the waistband of his pants, and pulled them as far down as she could manage. 

He fumbled out of them and looked up to see her wriggling out of her flowery panties. Only a half-second later she was pulling him in by his hips, whimpering, trying to get closer, closer, closer. 

"Wait." He laughed gently before meeting her eyes seriously. "Are you—?"

"Yes, I'm sure," she cut in with a smile. 

"Have you ever...?"

She blushed. "No," she admitted. "But I'm sure. That shouldn't change anything."

He froze. He'd asked to make sure, but he hadn't expected that answer. "Rose, you should've said."

"Why?"

"We're in a greenhouse," he reminded, pained. "Had I known...Rose, I'm sorry."

She touched his cheek, still smiling. "Don't be," she said. "I can't tell you how many times I've imagined this. This doesn't disappoint."

His heart swelled. "We don't have to," he told her earnestly. "Rose. _We don't have to_."

She kissed his jaw tenderly. "You're very sweet," she replied. "Just as I thought you'd be. But I want to. I'm on the potion. I'm ready. This is what I want. Right here. Right now." 

He hesitated. 

She rolled her hips, looped her arms around his neck, hooked her ankles at his lower back. He slipped back and forth through her wet folds. 

She felt so good. So tempting. So willing and wanting and right. 

He slipped a finger inside her, curled it experimentally. She hummed. He added a second. 

"I can take it," she assured. "Please. Just fuck me already."

He looked at her in surprise. She covered her mouth. Adorable. He shook his head, kissed her hand, and pushed into her slowly. 

He could feel how she stretched around him, how her warm, slick, flesh took him in. He groaned. 

"Ugh, _Rose_."

"Move," she urged. "I need...I need you to..."

"I know," he hushed, "I've got you." 

His hips pumped languidly in and out of her, one hand tangled in her hair as his lips covered hers, the other between them, stroking her clit. 

"You feel amazing," he breathed. "Godric. You're incredible."

Rose smiled into his neck. "You're pretty fantastic yourself. I...ah...can't believe how... _oh_."

He chuckled, blazing kisses across her shoulder. 

"I'm close," she murmured. "I'm so...so..."

"Relax." His lips brushed over her ear. "Let go."

She shook, her walls convulsing around him, pulling him right to the edge with her. 

She trembled with the aftershocks in his arms. 

"Thank you."

He laughed, kissing the top of her head. "Thank _you_ , Rose."

She looked up, glancing around. "Well," she said, "I don't think I've ever seen the windows with so much steam."


End file.
